Mercy
by Kuroshi44
Summary: Harry Potter is dying and Voldemort shows mercy to his enemy. This is dark, and I suggest proceeding with caution as if contains many disturbing things. Voldemort is sane, sort of, and possibly out of character.


Voldemort looked at the boy he had spent so much energy to reach, so much energy to track down and kill. The thorn in his side since the day his was born, as the only thing that could stop him. The one whose death had a sort the most, to finally reach it after using so much more effort than he ever had before.

Only to have his victory turn to ashes in his grip. In the end it hadn't matter, his effort was wasted because the boy was dying anyway

Months tracking down rituals and information in order to sneak past the blood wards his mother had set, as if he was a phantom in the dead of night, so he could achieve his goal. To finally claim the life of the boy who had stood in his way, to crush the hope of those that stood against him in his bare hands and laugh while he did. He had been so full of elation as he silently stalked up the steps to the room where he knew Harry Potter waited unknowingly for his death, the room from which he could Feel the boy's presence oozing into the night.

He had been slightly surprised by the many locks on the door, had wondered why they needed a cat flap on a door that lead to a bedroom and yet not one on the door to go outside. He had pushed it away as unimportant, and when those locks had been removed he stalked in, expecting to kill his sleeping prey. He had expected to finally end it with a swift Avada Kedava and disappear just as quickly, leaving nothing but a memory of life gone as any evidence that he had been there.

Instead, he had been halted in his tracks by the sight that greeted him when his eyes finally rested on the bed.

There he was, the only one he had ever truly considered a threat, the main obstacle in his plans. Broken bones, bruised and bloody skin, completely naked with his wrist and ankles chaffing at the ropes that still held him in place. There was little doubt about what else had been done to him, whoever had done this seemed to think they would be picking up where they left off come morning.

No, he needn't have bothered with the rituals and assassination attempt, the boy would be dead within the next few hours, the next morning something he would never see. The sad thing was that death would probably be a relief to him at this stage.

Voldemort found it something of a disappointment, and a disgrace, that the boy had been brought to this state in the one place he was supposed to be safe, mostly likely by the people that had been meant to look after him.

And, surprisingly, he couldn't bring himself to leave the boy to die alone. Not only because he would then be left without certainty of his demise, but also because it was a rather horrible way to end. Voldemort had been the driving force in so many things that had happened to him, had sort the boy's death so long. As his enemy, it was only right that he be there at the end.

Or at least that someone was.

It was as he moved to sit on the blood-soaked bed that he realised that the boy was still, amazingly, at least partly conscious. A soft whimpered escaped the hurt boy and he tried to struggle against his bonds, having no doubt learnt long ago to fear the approach of another.

'Hush, Harry,' he murmured, 'I won't hurt you, I just want to help.'

He was surprised when the boy responded by relaxing slightly at his words, though he still flinched with the feather light touch as Voldemort pushed the boy's hair out of his face. Hot, sweat covered skin met his fingertips, and he realised the boy was almost certainly delirious with pain. Instinctive reactions to tone of voice, or lingering fear, were probably what was driving anything the boy did at this point, as Voldemort doubted he was capable of comprehend much.

No, Harry Potter was not long for the world, and yet, at the same time, he would last far too long as he lingered in pain and fear with no hope of respite until death finally claimed him.

Gently, oh so gently, Voldemort released the boy from his cruel restraints. He rearranged him, despite small sounds of distress as the movement, so that he could be a little more comfortable during the time that remained. The tension drained from him slightly, but did not vanish, rivers of red continued to run from his body and soak the pathetic excuse for a mattress beneath him. The wounds still remained, but now his muscles and broken bones no longer strained at their position.

He found himself talking softly, soothingly, as he tried to offer some measure of comfort to his dying adversary. He had hated the boy, but even he did not deserve this. Voldemort stroked the boy's hair calmingly as the boy slowly relaxed into unconsciousness.

When the boys breathing finally started to even out as blood loss made itself known he lifted his wand, pressed it to the boy's chest, and muttered his spell. An end to a life filled with pain, for the killing curse didn't hurt its victims, only sent them to the ones that had loved them and left before.

He went to leave, and realised that he couldn't leave the boy there. These people were terrible, and he wouldn't, couldn't, leave his enemy to be disrespected by filthy, Muggles, trash. That was his job.

Silently he returned and, carefully, collected the corpse into his arms. He would bury it somewhere secluded, with a proper grave and monument away from prying eyes. To the public, that had ridiculed the boy after placing him on a pedestal against his will, Harry Potter would be reported by eyewitnesses (altered Memories were such wonderful things) to have died heroically in a duel with the Dark Lord, trying to save some muggle child, probably. Or something equally foolishly-brave that fitted the little lion oh-so perfectly. There would be very little left in the destruction that would result, not enough to identify beyond the words of those that would see the epic battle to its conclusion. Voldemort would go on to ridicule the boy to those he subjugated, and dishonour his memory as would any other rival.

And the secrete of the boy's true abuse, the way in which he had really died, would remain just that, secrete. His friends and those faithful would retain their image of him intact. No one would know that the boy's Uncle had taken advantage of him, tortured him, and that it had been a mercy killing in the end that had put a stop to his suffering.

Somewhere in limbo, Harry Potter boarded a train in Kings Cross to the welcoming arms of his Parents and Godfather.

Years would pass and Voldemort would rule un-challenged. And when he felt any weakness, he would find a slab of stone hidden in a forest and laugh until he cried at the _true_ honour, bravery, and life of a child that no one had ever bothered to really know.


End file.
